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Dec 2012
Evening's long shadow
lay peaceful between
a walk in the neighbor hood,
where the windows are looked at,
not through.
And the air is
not shattered with alarm.

Behind
the church doors
in the pews: a congregation
is dead.
I take them downstairs
to be buried.

The preacher is undisturbed.
"Where the dead lay
the crows will gather."

This game
played between the ears.
My own arm
beating my own head.
the cry of the small fry,
so the bull bellies up,
filling his hole.
Always in need of more.

Behind an ancient well,
with stillness,
and under a dark sky
with diamonds,
there is no natural,
nor is there any contrived

© 2005
All Rights Reserved 2005
Irving MacPherson
Written by
Irving MacPherson  home
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